I expected Frost or Wordsworth

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"What kind of poetry do you like?"

He seemed the type who liked to talk of such things:
The kind of man who knows the words of the world,
Who can sense the speech of evening rain on wind,
Who listens well to the quiet laugh of leaves.
     "What kind of poetry do you like?" I asked,
And watched the question marinate within
His mellow, summer-sunset mind. He chuckled:

"A baby's smile;
The sound of summer cicadas;
A crunchy leaf;
My favorite poems
Are unperturbed by words."

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